Determination
by John Locke
Summary: Frodo Baggins may have been chosen as the ring bearer, but Samwise Gamgee chose himself to be the bearer of Frodo. Incomprehensible devotion shown through strength and courage. The edge of Mount Doom brings forth a heartwrenching breakdown. Slightly AU
1. Endearment

**A/N Standard procedure here. I do not own anything blah blah blah.. I hope you all like my short piece on Frodo and Sam. Marked as AU…and by all means do not interpret the end part as anything but a sign of friendship.**

The times were dark, the shadows of evil were poking through the thick dark layers of foggy resentment. Purity and simplicity were lost amongst the joys of normalcy as each step of a long, protruding foot brought them deeper into the thicket of mountain named Mount Doom. With each step of the calloused sole, the dingy rocks sliding beneath tired, worn feet desperation rang through the clashing of the rocks. Two lone hobbits stood upon the edge of the mountain, oblivious to the battle that waged behind them, far behind them. Gruff and dirty from their perilous journey, all sparkle of life and happiness were drained. Yet the stockier, more lively (albeit the both of them were trudging as though stuck in a deep, thick molasses, thighs stuck together with pain and weakness) one was trying desperately to hold onto the last fathom of light.

A once light and spirited voice rubbed vocal chords in startling roughness, but the edges were smoothed by inflection. "We've got to stay low Mr. Frodo. If we have any hope left of reaching the peak... We've not got much time." A few whimpers of strained breath were uttered in response.

"Time... Sam... Time is nothing to me anymore."

"By all means Mr. Frodo, time heals all wounds, but now is not the place for a lively discussion. We need to reach the top." Eagerness to get rid of the epitome of evil radiating from his companions chest was biting at his tongue, wishing its way out of his mouth. Sam's words went unheeded as the darker haired hobbit sank to his knees, and then to his bottom. Resting on the base of the rock formation. The top seemed to endlessly stretch into the clouded skies, concealed within the heat of a foreboding presence.

"Time is Time heals nothing, it does nothing and can do nothing. Time is just there. If you choose not to move on, you will not heal, but the healing process is within yourself and your desire to become better. Nobody can deter you from healing but yourself, and if you do not manage your time wisely, then all hope is lost." His voice was losing its tone, harsh tears were prickling at the corners of wrinkled, tarnished eyes threatening to break loose of their prison. Frustration and anger the cause.

"Don't talk like that. You need to have hope, and speed. We have not the time!" Sam's voice was pleading and urgent as his earth colored eyes glanced high up into the atmosphere, observing the rock with an exasperated sigh.

"Hope, I have no hope left." One felled tear streaked its way down the grungy apple of his cheek, marking a path that was soon to be followed.

"Please, for your sake sir. You need to get up. For the sake of the shire, and Mister Bilbo..." Desperation was tingeing his voice, as if it had taken over completely. All this talk of hopelessness, and time being wasted was rubbing him the wrong way. He wanted this to be over with, he wanted Frodo to get better, to be able to breathe without the burden of evil lurking in his very heart. "Hope is not lost. We're here. We made it to the very edge of the mountain. Hope isn't lost..." Sam was all but trying to convince himself as well as his friend. Although his words were profound, they did nothing to console of the hole in his heart and spirit that was carved with each of Frodo's words.

"Hope is a fleeting thought that is inspired by foolishness, childishness, and fleeting sanity. Hope is what beggars have to become choosers, what fools have to become smart, and what the desperate have to become stable. Hope is something lost amongst the knowledgeable, and is imprisoned deep within the dark cells of the brain, never to be released, ironically without itself. Hope is a desperation, a fleeting chance at nothing when you have nothing. Hope is lost." As if his last bit of energy had been spent he lay back, letting his lids fall shut, letting the darkness overwhelm his weary eyes. Words were drained, and so was he. All of his life's wishes and dreams were spent and he was tired, oh so tired. He wanted to please Sam, he did, but could not summon enough strength.

Almost heart broken, Sam let out another sigh and hastily wiped at his eyes. A thought popped into his head as he leaned over and lifted his friend into his arms, to set him upright. He was not protested against, and he was glad for it. "If you have no hope, I will hope for you." He waited until his friend was stably on his feet before getting behind him, literally, mentally, and emotionally. It was obvious the weight of the world was on Frodo's shoulders, and he wouldn't let that happen to him alone.

The tiredness in the stocky hobbit was pushed back by a fierce, biting determination to see his friend recover, to do this on his own, but with him at his side. Lightly brushing his lips over the dirt mucked forehead of Frodo, Sam's sign of endearment brought the dulled azure orbs into focus. A new light, not of purity or hope, came into them. A sense of righteousness coursed between the two as Frodo staggered away from his friend, suddenly determined to make the climb.


	2. Senses Overload

**A/N I may be able to add some other little one-shot chapters to this story-esque thing. This was sitting in my brain for about ten minutes before jumping onto my paper, hope you enjoy. (Also just another thing, Sam and Frodo's relationship_ is _just platonic!)**

He felt as if his mind was slipping away into the misty fog of memories that were treasured more than his life. The fondness of the elder hobbit whom would often give him advice as he sat pruning the large rose shrubberies in front of Bag End. The dirt that would be covering his face and hands would slowly start to be removed from its caked on position as a thin sheen of sweat trekked its way down his neck; slowly matting the short curled hairs onto the sun-ripened skin. The sun was as usual shining, the heat making his face glow with happiness as the soothing voice of his employer reached his ears, and his pudgy fingers gracefully touched the very delicate petals of his favorite flower. He did not mind the heat as he closed his eyes for just a brief second to relish in his senses being overloaded by one single voice, the softness of a touch, the scent only the Valier could produce, and even the taste of the warm, humid air. Letting his mind slip further away into the blissfulness of normalcy and peace, he did not notice how intense the heat had become.

Startled as he came back to his senses, he felt the over powering heat flowing around him coming in torrents, and sweat hanging from every offrice of his body, the smell of burning melting rocks, and the sound of the voice that once pacified him, but now was coarse and heavy with pain. "I can't remember Sam." was what it said. Sadness, guilt and devastation washed over him as the events of the months prior flashed by his minds eye rather too quickly. Tears were now streaming warm, but almost cool compared to the air around him. They were washing away the grime of months without bathing. Months of frightening battle for life, and the world. The dirt upon his body now was not comforting like it used to be, it only brought bitter remorse to his mind. The exhaustion was overbearing, and forced him to lie down, using a rock for a pillow. He did not care of the rock that sufficed comfort for him, as he let his sweat run from his body as the molten rock ran from the depths of Mount Doom. The task was done, but he felt worse than he did before the evil was destroyed, before he had a chance to escape, and now hope of making it off of the rock alive seemed hopeless.

He felt a small touch to his still hand; one with a trembling, unsteady, uncertain feel to it woke him from his remorse. The bloodied four finger hand grabbed his own as a sign of perseverance and achievement. No words could be heard over the now deafening rush of molten rock that filled his ears, the world finally turned off. A jerking motion brought him to look towards his companion who was sporting the tiniest of smiles, yet no such emotion was placated in his eyes. It had been so long since his memories were true, and how he longed to go back and just sit in the shade of a big weeping willow tree, that touched the surface of the Baggins' pond down past the rolling hill. To hear Frodo speak words of endearment, and be cheerful. But it was hopeless; they would never be able to get through the molten rock.

His thoughts were immediately pushed out of his head as Frodo spoke again, though weaker than before. Three beautiful words that had become music to his ears, his friend was somewhat there after all. "The Eagles Sam...."


End file.
